Let her go
by CarolineWrites
Summary: Modern AU. One-shot. Features established Éponine/Montparnasse, as well as Éponine/Enjolras (in a way. You'll understand what I mean.) Trigger warnings: Abuse. The story of how two childhood friends lose and find each other again. What are their lives like now? Influenced by "Let Her Go" by Passenger. I recommend listening to it on repeat while reading.


**AN: This is a modern AU one-shot featuring Éponine and Enjolras, as well as Montparnasse. Trigger warnings: Abuse, sexual abuse. Rated M because of language as well as mention of both sexual and physical abuse. Please let me know what you think!**

* * *

_Well you only need the light when it's burning low  
Only miss the sun when it starts to snow_

Childhood is the time of dreams. Of joy and easy laughs. When nothing is dangerous, and every place is merely a new arena for adventure and excitement. There are no concerns, other than making it home for dinner. Social status and your family does not matter. All that matters is smiles and laughs and childish games without set rules. He is from a wealthy family, though he isn't truly aware of that. Her family runs an inn, where everyone is scammed yet the inn still loses money. The boy is older, by a few years, blonde curls and a boyish face that in time will be all chiseled jaws and high cheek bones. She is young, dark hair and gangly limbs, with deep dimples, light in her eyes and a sharp tongue.

If asked, they could not tell you when they first met. They merely had, and now their days were always spent together. Laughs. Games. Running. Jumping. Exploring. A simple childhood life, free of trouble. Childhood seems to go on forever, seemingly without change until one day there is. That is when childhood ends. When the illusion is shattered and the real world comes crashing in, carrying your childhood out to open sea, leaving the shattered shell of a child standing on the rough beach with bleeding knees and hard eyes.

It was a grey autumn day when the girl did not appear. There was frost in the air, and the crowd was thin. The boy stood there, tugging on his red bourgeois jacket, looking left and right for the girl who was his entire world. How long did he stand there before the rain began coming down? Hours, surely. The rain was cold, so cold that it could have been ice without noticeable difference. He came back the next day. Then the next day after that. Again, and again, and again, for weeks, before he ventured to the inn. Or what was left of the inn. An empty shell, with boarded up windows and a notice on the door. _Expulsé._The brown haired, easy-going girl was gone.

_Only know you love her when you let her go_

Years passed. The boy became a man, and he moved to Paris to study. Law. The curls were gone, slicked back with precision. His youthful face was changed. Now it was the hard face of a man who never smiled, with a chiselled jaw and sharp facial features. His body was firm, but not overly so. Girls threw themselves at him, but he did not see them. Why would he, when there was so much that needed to be done, with society and with school? His one true passion occupied his mind most nights. Along with his friends, he was working for change. _Student revolutionaries_ they whispered behind their backs. They called themselves _Les Amis de l'ABC_ and they were the future. His name was Enjolras, and he was marble.

At the other side of Paris, in a damp and mouldy apartment in Saint-Michelle there was another family. Previously wealthy inn-owners, they were stripped of their wealth. The man was a brutal alcoholic, known by many names. Though the lease said Jondrette, his name was Thénardier. He was infamous, a dealer of drugs and a thief in the night. His wife was uncaring, uninterested and unloving, with empty eyes and a cruel heart. They had too many mouths to feed, and their children paid the prize. The youngest, a boy named Gavroche, who slept in the streets more often than at the house. He had a mouth on him, and an attitude towards life that was roughened by the life he'd been forced to lead. Azelma, the middle child. A beauty, with fair hair that looked darker than it was because of the dirt that always coated it. She was the most loyal, a fierce dog. Then the eldest. A thin girl. Beaten. Downtrodden. Starving. Dark hair that fell in uneven tresses that surely needed a trimming. In another life she could have been beautiful, but she looked too much like a small boy to be considered that. Hip bones protruding, ribs sticking out, spine obscured only by skin. The skin was dotted by scars and bruises, some yellow and fading, others black and purple. Éponine, she was called, and she was scarcely more than a shadow when she wanted to be.

The apartment was filthy. A two-room place, it often accommodated far too many for the size. Thénardier was the leader of a band of thugs known solely as the _Patron-Minette_. On the floor, accompanied by several empty bottles of beer and harder liquor, laid the members. Babet, Claquesous, Brujon. And Montparnasse. The last occupied the sofa, which was dirty and reeked of alcohol. He was not alone. Éponine was next to him, pressed tightly to him on the small area the sofa permitted. At first glance, the pair looked like lovers, cuddling as they slept. A second, more intense look would disrupt the image, however. Montparnasse's thick arm was slung over Éponine's thin waist, his hand closed around her impossibly tiny wrist. Tight enough to form bruises. Even in sleep he grinned, cruelly. His other hand held a handful of Éponine's long hair, forcing her head to tilt slightly backwards. The girl was frowning, even in sleep, one of her hands clenching and unclenching.

_Only know you've been high when you're feeling low  
Only hate the road when you're missing home_

It was a Friday. Enjolras would normally have been at home, typing furiously on his laptop, working on yet another essay for one of his classes or writing a new speech about the social standings of France, with his phone by his side, ready for one of his friends to call him at two in the morning as they slurred a location. Today was different. Grantaire, one of the members of the _Amis_ and one of his friends, was turning twenty-three. As a result, the drunk had forced Enjolras to join them at aclub. Ten minutes after arriving and getting a bottle of beer pushed into his hand by Grantaire, and Enjolras was developing a headache from the music. Slumped by the bar, sipping the vile liquid, all he wanted was to go home. He despised alcohol. Hated what it did to his senses. Loathed the taste.

A girl sat down on the vacant seat beside him, shouting an order of tequila at the bartender, who after a moment set a shot glass in front of her, filling it as she handed over a few euros. Out of the corner of his eye, Enjolras watched as the girl expertly tipped the contents down her throat. Through the scent of the club, with the combination of sweat, alcohol and a slight tinge of vomit, Enjolras could smell how strong the liquid the girl drank was. Yet she did not flinch, instead slamming the now empty glass back down and motioning for the bartender to fill it back up. She dropped the money on the counter when he did, and grabbed the glass, turning to Enjolras. He looked up at her as she raised her glass in a mock salute and a wicked grin, before downing the shot.

"Come dance!" she shouted at him, setting down the glass. No waiting for a reply. She grasped his arm, pulling him to his feet and dragging him towards the dance floor. Despite the stiletto heels and the alcohol Enjolras had just witnessed her drink, she moved easily, dark hair flowing down her back. They passed a Courfeyrac and Feuilly, both of whom had an arm around a girl. Both men stared at the sight of Enjolras and the mystery girl with the dark eyes and dimples. The marble man. And a girl. A sight for the history books, surely.

_Staring at the bottom of your glass  
Hoping one day you'll make a dream last_

The music was louder on the dance floor, yet Enjolras found he did not mind so much anymore. His head still throbbed, and the place still smelled badly, but the girl swaying her hips in time with his own was a distraction. She looked young, though. Too young, all bones and hardly no curves. Her bra was clearly padded, because considering how prominent her collar bone was, there was no way her breasts could be the size that they appeared. They had been dancing for a while, but Enjolras could not tell you how long if you asked. All the songs sounded identical, the beat never changing and thus making it impossible to tell the time. The girl turned towards him, however, grinning mischievously, and pointed towards the door. Finally. He nodded, letting her take a hold of his hand with her smaller one and pull him to the exit.

The air was fresh. Crisp. Clean. Though the music was still audible, it was a lot less prominent. The girl dug out a package of cigarettes from her pocket, taking one and offering it to Enjolras. He lived on cigarettes and coffee, and accepted easily, leaning in to light his against hers. The mystery girl took a deep drag, blowing the smoke out, the stream catching some of her hair, which flew through the air for a little.

"So, pretty boy. What's your name?" she asked, turning to him as she took another drag. Enjolras had his own cigarette planted between his teeth, but removed it to answer her, smoke billowing out of his mouth.

"Enjolras, _mademoiselle_." Polite and proper, even under the influence. Even more so than normal, perhaps. The girl let out a raspy laugh at the title.

"I'm no _mademoiselle_, pretty boy. Name's Éponine. I go by Ép, though." Another drag of her cigarette. It was almost finished. Enjolras still had half of his left. The name stirred a memory.

A time long ago. Practically a different lifetime. When he was the curly-haired boy with the wide eyes and easy smile. A younger girl, with hair like the girl he stood with now, and dimples to match hers. Was it..? He was about to ask, when a shout disturbed them.

"OI, ÉPONINE!"

They both turned to the sound of the voice. Éponine's eyes widened slightly. "Fuck," she muttered, dropping her cigarette and stomping on it to extinguish it. "I gotta go, the boyfriend's here." She turned to Enjolras, flashing him a dimpled smile before making her way to the shadow at the corner of the street. The man's eyes were on her swaying hips. Practically undressing her with the harsh eyes. Sighing, Enjolras shook his head and went back inside.

_But dreams come slow and they go so fast  
You see her when you close your eyes_

Montparnasse's hands were rough on her arms when they grabbed her. "Who was that bourgeois boy, eh?" Alcohol. The scent was plain on his breath, and Éponine fought the instinct to pull away. "Tell me who he was, you filthy _whore_," he growled in her ear, his right hand snaking up to her neck and closing around it, blocking some of her air supply. Éponine's eyes widened, her hand instinctively attempting to close around Montparnasse's thick wrist. "Please, it was nothing. I'm yours, 'Parnasse. Please, let go," she begged, eyes wide as she looked at him. Jealousy was not pretty on the man. Slowly, his lips twisted into a Cheshire grin. Shifting his hand, so that he held her neck and not her throat, his other hand slipping around her waist, he guided her roughly into an alley. It smelled like piss.

The rough bricks were harsh against Éponine's back, but they were nothing compared to Montparnasse's hands. Large and rough, one holding onto her arm, hard enough that she could feel the bruises form. The other was pulling down her jeans and her panties. "Don't," she began. _Not here. Anywhere but here._ He did not care. The fist not keeping her pinned to the spot connected with her face. "Shut up, whore. You're mine, and I can do you wherever the fuck I want to. You hear me?" he wheezed, foul breath washing over her as he unfastened his pants.

One thrust. Two. Three. Four. Éponine lost count, could not focus on the pain of his invasive and hard thrusts. He had never been a kind lover, only caring about his own pleasure. Though Montparnasse had stopped her father from whoring her out, Éponine felt dirty whenever he did this. The intrusive sex, the rough and impersonal thrusts. Finally. The man pulled out, grabbed her cheek and kissed her. Roughly. Harshly. With a tongue that was too intrusive and large, halfway forcing itself down her throat. He tucked his member back into his pants as Éponine pulled up her bottoms, cringing at how sore she already felt. Barely done buttoning the last button before he grabbed her arm and pulled her back to his tiny apartment for seconds.

_Well you see her when you fall asleep  
But never to touch and never to keep  
'Cause you loved her too much and you dive too deep_

Eleven days passed before Enjolras saw her again. It was raining, pouring down in buckets. Next to him, Grantaire lugged, the man too hung over to care about the rain that was currently drenching him. Enjolras however, was not. A small café was open, the light inviting and soft through the dark rain. Grabbing his friend's soaked sleeve, Enjolras pulled him inside, the bell announcing their entry. It was not particularly busy. A few girls sat at a table, one of them braiding her damp hair into a fishbone plait as the others sipped their coffees. Probably some low-fat, skim milk lattes. It always was. Two men, obviously students judging by the laptops they were both typing away on, frowns on their faces. Then in the corner, cradling a cup and practically drowning in an oversized hoodie, was the girl. The girl from the club. Éponine. The girl from the childhood that was long since gone.

Deposit Grantaire at one of the tables. The man slumped over the wooden table, looking as if he'd just discovered the most comfortable surface in the world. Éponine did not see them. Her hair was wet, clearly she'd been caught by the rain. The Converse on her feet were soaked through, old and worn. A faded bruise on her neck stuck up over the edge of her hoodie. It was yellow, but something told Enjolras that it had started out as a deep purple. That was not a love mark. The shape was wrong. Should he go up to her? No. Yes. He tossed the alternatives back and forth, before deciding. First, however, he bought coffees for him and Grantaire.

"One triple espresso, and a large Cappuccino for my friend over there," he told the barista. With his back towards Éponine, he did not see her turn towards him. Nor did he see the fresh cut on her lip and the poorly covered black eye. Clearly, her concealer had been washed away by the rain. The panic was evident in Éponine's eyes. She did not want him to see her like this. Weak. Pathetic. An obvious candidate for charity. Rising to leave, but she did not have time to move even a step before Enjolras turned. Piercing blue met hard brown. Golden curls met brown tresses. Rich and poor. Completely different. Yet Enjolras smiled, and he stepped over.

"Hi, 'Ponine," he greeted softly, frowning at the state of her face. His hand moved, to gently brush her injured cheek. But she flinched. Head thrown away from him. Eyes wide. Fear. Built in, from years of men taking advantage, beating her down. Enjolras noticed. He always noticed everything. Even as a child in a time far away. A lifetime ago. She had changed more than him. "You never said goodbye to me. When you left," he tried, letting his hand fall to his side. Éponine merely scoffed, not answering. Her eyes were not upon him. Instead she looked past him, out into the rain. "Hey. Look at me," Enjolras said, perhaps more harshly than he intended. Her head whipped to him, as if she was obeying him on instinct, and not because she wanted to. It scared him, seeing her this way. She'd always been so strong, the girl with the dimples and easy laugh.

Finally, she spoke. "Long time no see, Enj. You look good. I don't." She laughed. Humourless. A mocking laugh. Nothing was funny about what she'd said, and Enjolras frowned. "What happened to you?" he asked, voice hushed. His hand took on a life of its own, brushing strands of her damp hair behind her ear, before softly brushing over her cheek. Éponine's eyes shut at the soft caress. Whoever her boyfriend from that night had been, he obviously did not touch her this way often. The chime of the bell ripped them apart. Both of them turned to look at who entered. At the sight, Éponine paled. A fairly tall man, dark hair and a leather jacket and with the hint of a tattoo poking up from the edge of his shirt. Montparnasse.

"Well, well, 'Ponine. Ain't so loyal today, are we?" he mocked. The barista was moving, stepping out from behind the counter. "You're not welcome here. Leave, or I'm calling the police," the woman told him, brave in spite of the fact that he was much taller and bulkier than him. Her voice did shake slightly, however. "No worries, I'm just here to collect my girl. Ain't no need to call the coppers," Montparnasse reassured her, though it sounded more like a threat. Without waiting for a reply, he grabbed Éponine's arm. She flinched, but pressed a hastily written note into Enjolras' hand. Their eyes met. Blue and brown. There was no laughter in her eyes. No life at all. Merely a downtrodden woman.

_Well you only need the light when it's burning low  
Only miss the sun when it starts to snow_

It turned out to be her phone number. Enjolras did not know when to call, so he waited until three o'clock the next day. She picked up on the fourth ring. "Hello?" Her voice was hushed, rough and tired. In the background, Enjolras could hear the low call of "Who is it?" It was not the boyfriend. Éponine covered the mouth piece, her muffled voice all he could hear, but not clearly enough to pick up on the words. A few moments, before she returned. "Hello?" she said again, louder this time.

"Hi. It's Enjolras."

They talked for a long time, Enjolras coaxing her story out of her. In the end, she was sobbing. Loud and heart-breaking sobs. All he wanted to do was hug her. To take her away. So he forced her address out of her, got in his car, and picked her up. Took her home. Away from the pain and the abuse. Back to safety. To childhood.

_Only know you love her when you let her go  
Only know you've been high when you're feeling low  
Only hate the road when you're missing home  
Only know you love her when you let her go_

Of course it could not last. In the end, Montparnasse found her. Took her. Beat her. Gleam of silver. Pool of red. Rugged breaths. Enjolras found her. Too late. Always too late. Too little. Still she smiled. Dimples. Eyes that were finally _alive_, despite the life leaking out of her. As if all her remaining life was gathered in her eyes.

"I don't feel any pain. Don't you dare give up on life," she told him, as he cradled her in his arms. There, in that ugly, smelling alleyway. His right hand pressed onto her wound. Left arm supporting her upper body. Tears. The man who never cried could not stop them even if he tried. They fell, mixing with her blood. "When I'm gone," she began, stopping to draw a breath, gather her strength, "move on. Fall in love. Smile. Laugh. Do everything you always wanted. And then maybe spare me a thought every now and then." Éponine smiled, tugging his right hand from her abdomen and up, to her face. "You know, I think I loved you," she told him. Eyes slid close. Face went slack. The hand holding onto Enjolras' arm dropped.

"Ép." The tears were still streaming down his face. Gently, ever so gently, he pressed a kiss to her forehead. "I love you. Always."

_And you let her go_

* * *

**AN: So, what did you think? I know it wasn't the best ending ever, but I tried. Please let me know your thoughts, they are much appreciated.**


End file.
